


you must be starving

by earltrancy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Blood, Demon Dean Winchester, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 07:15:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17762249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earltrancy/pseuds/earltrancy
Summary: He doesn't seem so different. Has the same horrible posture, elbows propped up on the bar where he's nursing a bottom shelf whiskey.The bartender’s dead, but his brother’s never had the most refined palate.





	you must be starving

He doesn't seem so different. Has the same horrible posture, elbows propped up on the bar where he's nursing a bottom shelf whiskey. 

The bartender’s dead, but his brother’s never had the most refined palate. 

“Knew you’d find me.” 

A blue-steel smile greets Sam to the tune of an old stool creaking. Its owner raises his eyebrows and blinks twice, fluttering his lashes and telling his tale in a quick flash of black. 

“… And you didn't run?” Cat and mouse situation they have going on, see. 

Dean sighs. Takes a swig of cheap booze. Looks up at Sam with the green human eyes he cares about so much. “Didn't want to.”

Nodding, Sam looks around at the maimed corpses from once-patrons of Podunk Hollow Pub. “So this is – what? Your attempt at a hello?”

The reprimand in voice and expression makes Dean genuinely smile, gaze trained straight ahead. 

“Go on, tell me how much it hurts you to see me like this. I promise not to gag.”

He reaches for the bottle; Sam's hand envelops his around it. “Dean.”

_“Dean.”_

He's staring lasers through where they touch. 

“This is… this is… getting your attention.”

Sam slides both his and Dean's hand from the bottle to the counter. Folds his fingers under Dean's palm. “You know, most people would use a phone call, not a headline.”

A grin. “I'm not a _person.”_

The taste of Sam's fear in the air is all wrong. Impure. Muddied with other emotions. Longing, loss.

Pity. 

He grits his teeth. Snatches his hand away. 

Sam doesn't flinch. “You’re _you.”_

“Am I, now?”

He ignores the taunt and holds Dean's gaze. “Come home.”

For a while they just stare. “Would you be here if you didn't want to come home?”

“This ain't a Lifetime movie. I told you to let me go.”

“And I know you know better than that.”

God, his smile. Even shiny new Dean can't help his reaction to that smile. 

“Fuck, even when I'm dead I can't live without you.”

Something droopy and stupid hangs in Sam's eyes at that. The colors in them shift in the low light, as satisfying as the Blade dripping blood. 

“So come home. Let me take you home.”

Dean won't let this be a weakness. It'll all be better soon.

“Okay, Sammy. Okay.”

┈❁┈

He takes the first few doses willingly. Bites the belt, because it's worth it. Sam's trust is worth it. 

His tone is gentle when he starts in. “Will this kill me?”

Sam lets a pouch of AB positive slide from his hands. Turns to face Dean. “What?”

“I heard you out there. On the phone with Cass.”

“Dean –”

“I might be dying now.”

It's like chambering a bullet, Sam's reaction to that phrase. A deadly reliable response. 

“I won't let that happen.”

He catches Sam's eyes. Keeps his voice level, quiet. “At least it's you that gets to torture me ‘til I bite it, huh? Seems fair.”

Sam makes for the door. Without a word, comes back rattling a can of spray paint. 

_Yahtzee._

When Dean steps out of the trap, Sam falls into his arms like he's the one in pain. Dean lets out a breath, hooks his chin over Sam's shoulder, and closes his eyes. Smooths his hands up and down Sam's back. “You’re okay, Sam. I'm right here. You're okay. We're okay.”

┈❁┈

It's so easy after that. 

Cass tries time and again to talk sense to him, but Sam refuses to take his brother back to the dungeon. Even then, Dean feels their wordless agreement that the injections stop, that they'll find another way, they have to. 

For now, though, Dean sleeps in his own room, in his own bed. Moves about the bunker freely under Sam's watchful eye. 

But Sam trusts him. He knows he shouldn't, but he does. 

┈❁┈

The next part is the worst. It's not guilt – Dean's pretty sure he's incapable of that emotion. 

But seeing Sam in so much pain, even pain Dean caused, is torture. 

He doesn't recognize the symptoms, and thankfully, neither does Cass, or anyone else they call about Sam's ‘illness’. So they'll wait it out, they decide. 

Operative word being _wait,_ but when his little brother's cried-out, sleepless eyes look up at him from where he's rested in his lap, Dean breaks. 

Petting Sam's hair in a repetitive, calming motion, Dean soothes, “I can make it go away, you know.”

His face twists adorably in confusion. “Whaddo – what do you mean?”

“Just what I said. I can make the pain go away, Sam, I want to.”

As if on cue, Sam's body convulses violently; Dean pulls him upright and holds him while he heaves and holds back screams. 

Dean tries to shush him, but Sam forces words through loud, labored breaths. “What – did you – _do_ – to me?”

“It's gonna be alright, Sammy –”

_“What did you do?”_

He rolls his eyes, getting on Sam's lap to hold him still. “Calm down. It's gonna be alright.”

Eventually his breathing slows again, and Dean cups his jaw, smiles at him. “There you go.”

Sam's face is pained, and for the first time in a while he looks _afraid._ Dean hates it. 

“Sam, it's okay,” he says with an encouraging smile. “Look, I'll show you what it is. I'll show you.”

He draws the switchblade Sam stows in his boot, still holding him steady with his other hand. 

“Dean.”

“Shh, it's okay, look.” Dean flicks the knife open and raises it to the crook of his own neck, the deep wound it leaves immediately dribbling blood. 

All of Sam's senses snap to the spot. 

He's already quivering with exertion, breathing shuddery and so, _so_ wanting, as he abstains. 

Dean drops the knife, holds Sam's face in his hands instead. “Don't fight it. Let me make it better.”

Sam's voice is small when he speaks. “How?”

Stroking Sam's cheek with his thumb, Dean chuckles. “Spiked the punch, baby boy. And by punch I mean– Well. Pretty much everything?”

“You poisoned me.”

“I wouldn't put it like that.”

Sam's eyes can't settle on where to land; Dean's blood, his eyes, anywhere else. He sneers, wearing a sarcastic smile, looking… looking betrayed. Dean can't stand it. He can't _understand_ it. He could _fix_ this, make it _better,_ if Sam would just –

“You don't have to make me go through fucking withdrawal to get my attention,” he manages finally. And he laughs, sad and scared and _hungry,_ but real. 

He's crying, too, and Dean's getting whiplash.

“…You didn't want me this way. Had to– had to make you want me, Sammy.”

Dean wants to throw up at how weak he sounds. 

But then Sam _holds_ him. Gives him that look with the furrowed eyebrows that says he's amazed Dean can possibly be this stupid. The one he's had since he was ten and helping a fourteen-year-old Dean with his math homework. 

“I always want you.”

Dean barely has a second to wrap his head around those words before Sam's lost to more fever shakes. 

“Sam,” murmurs Dean, keeping his brother still. He reaches for his neck and holds two fingers soaked in his own blood up to Sam's lips. “Sam, please. Let me fix it.”

“Show me.”

“… What?”

“Show me what you are, Dean.”

Oh. 

Dean blinks. 

Sam looks right into clear black eyes as he takes Dean's fingers into his mouth. 

He holds his gaze for a moment longer before closing his eyes and sucking Dean's fingers clean. 

_“Sammy.”_

Subconsciously, Dean leans forward when he takes his hand away. But Sam's the brave one; Sam pulls Dean down by the back of the head and kisses him stupid. 

“Don't you _ever_ tell yourself that I don't want you.”

Dean just pulls him back in, but when Sam twitches away in another spasm he grabs for the discarded switchblade and pushes it into Sam's hand. 

“Come on, baby,” he soothes, “Take as much as you need. It's okay.”

Sam groans, slicing back through the same cut before wrapping his lips around it and drinking deep. 

With Dean's fingers in his hair and Dean's taste in his mouth, Sam's eyes slip closed again, and Dean smiles, mumbling praises to him. 

“Relax, now. That's it. That's it, Sammy. All for you, baby boy. So gorgeous.”

┈❁┈

And by God, Sam's power is intoxicating. He can shove Dean across a room with a wave of his hand; have Dean on his knees for him with a snap of his fingers. 

Ironically, Dean's a little addicted.

**Author's Note:**

> first wincest fic because i love pain  
> hit me up on tumblr @rocksaltshotguns if you wanna


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